


valkyries don't smile

by fallen_woman



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-15
Updated: 2009-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallen_woman/pseuds/fallen_woman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>four times hildy was serious, and one time she wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	valkyries don't smile

The office manager reminded Hildy of her older sister Wilma, only with shinier hair and a larger vocabulary. Hildy stared straight ahead as she walked two steps behind, keeping her body outside the orbit of Ms. Holloway's hips. She noted the manager's advice about bringing band-aids, aspirin, and spare blouses (she already had a needle and two colors of thread, tucked in the outer pocket of her purse).

"You should really have that taken in." Ms. Holloway gestured lightly at Hildy's brown dress. "A slim girl like you doesn't need that much fabric."

"I like my dress the way it is," Hildy said tightly. Ms. Holloway really was like Wilma, all scented powder and fluttery parlance: _Oh, Hildy my darling, you've bloomed—halfway._ If the coldness of her voice bothered Ms. Holloway, the other woman didn't let it show in the soft curve of her smile.

"Of course, dear," she said, like a benediction. They stopped at an empty, clean desk. "You'll be working for Mr. Campbell" — and now, something undeniably coiled in those rosy lips — "I think the two of you will be well-suited to each other."

*****

Over the course of the week, Hildy learned that Mr. Campbell had two modes: petulant and smug. She also learned that his flights of greasy elation irritated her far more than any temper tantrum he could huff up.

On Thursday night, a spider bit Hildy on the left corner of her mouth. By Friday morning, her lips had swelled to twice their normal size. She put a cold compress on her mouth for fifteen minutes and went to work anyways; it was poor form to take a day off during the first week.

"Jesus, Hildy, you look terrible." Mr. Campbell halted in front of his door.

"It's not serious," Hildy said carefully, refusing to blush or fidget her hands over her mouth.

Mr. Campbell pulled out his wallet and tossed two bills at random on her desk. "No, take the day off and go see a doctor. I can't have a deformed girl working out front. It'll look like I got the scrap secretary."

Her crackled lips were too puffed to frown or even properly hiss. "Thank you, Mr. Campbell."

She kept the money and bought a steak dinner for her parents instead. Her mother applied a foul green salve to her lips, and by the time she walked into Sterling-Cooper on Monday, her mouth had resumed its normal appearance.

Mr. Campbell positively glowed when he saw her in the morning. "Hildy! Good to see you looking better." For a horrifying moment, Hildy thought that he was going to place a hand on her shoulder, but he merely half-leaned, half-sat at her desktop. He faux-whispered: "I was afraid I would have to take you behind the shed and shoot you."

"That won't be necessary." She pried a file from under Mr. Campbell's rear.

"Why are you so sour?" Mr. Campbell slid off her desk. She had never realized how red his lips were, in that polished moon face. "I helped you get better, didn't I?"

"The doctor gave me a shot," she lied. "He told me not to smile for several days."

"Well. That shouldn't be difficult for you," he said and slammed his door. Elbows on table, she pressed her fingers to her brow bone and wondered why she had agreed to work for a five-year-old.

*****

The girls were debating which executive in Sterling Cooper had the best name, for marrying purposes.

Marge crossed her arms in front of the water cooler. "Don Draper, without a doubt. 'Draper' goes with everything; Peggy, you are one lucky girl, to be working his desk."

The new girl dropped her eyes, and her ponytail bounced. "I guess so."

Hildy blew into her cup of tea. In six months at Sterling-Cooper, no one had ever told her how lucky she was.

Allison giggled, fiddling with the black bow on the front of her vest. "As long as we're only talking names, I think 'Harry Crane' sounds pretty swell. Although he's not very crane-like." She giggled again.

"If he actually looked like a crane and had the last name Crane, it would be a joke," Hildy said tartly, clinking her cup against the counter. How dim of Allison, to overlook the juxtaposition of soft features and sharp, clean sounds; the touches of gold in horn-rimmed glasses; the sweet hesitancy in a company full of glib blackguards and paper-bag beauties.

"Aw, Hildy Campbell, don't be sore with me," Allison grinned, and before Hildy could throw her tea in the other secretary's face, Joan sashayed in and told them all to get back to work.

*****

"Hildy, have you ever read _Little House on the Prairie_?"

"Yes, Mr. Campbell," Hildy said, and tried not to wonder what this had to do with the account files in her hand.

Mr. Campbell swiveled around in his chair—a move that she had seen him practice several times, when his office door hadn't been properly closed. The silly rifle he had bought yesterday was still in the corner of the room, casting a shadow on the couch.

"I thought you would have. Did you like it?"

"I suppose. I read the books a long time ago." She straightened her shoulders and tried to give off the impression of competent impatience. It was 4:55 p.m., and she had to catch the 5:15 p.m. train to make it to her sister's engagement dinner.

"You know, you would fit right in there." He stretched, laced his fingers behind his head. "Sitting by the fireplace, sewing. Wearing one of those—calico dresses. With buttons down the front."

She placed the files on the edge of the desk. "My father took me camping once. I hated it."

"Well, maybe you should try again. Have you ever been hunting, Hil—"

"I'm going to leave now," she said, walking backwards, as if Mr. Campbell were an especially dangerous ferret that would tear into her ankles once she turned around.

(Hildy was mildly late for dinner. Wilma pouted for all of five seconds before flitting kisses over her little sister's face and stroking her cheek, back of left hand only, so Hildy could feel the hard glide of the diamond ring.)

For the rest of the week, Mr. Campbell called her "Little House" and "Calico Buttons," probably because "Laura Ingalls Wilder" was too long to pronounce.

*****

Hildy had always been a lightweight. The thrum of election night had traveled through her high heels up the back of her legs and her spine, and the warmth of the crème de menthe was unfurling in her throat, and she was laughing the hardest she had in forever. Ken wagged his eyebrows at her and reached vaguely for her skirt, and Harry swatted his hand away.

"She already has to deal with one kid clutching at her skirts," he chuckled, and since it was Harry, and more specifically Harry insulting Pete, she laughed until tears—or was that alcohol?—sprinkled her cheeks.

She felt like twirling on her tiptoes. She felt like kissing somebody. It could have been the best night of her life.


End file.
